Is This What You Call Love
by darthsydious
Summary: Prompt-fill for the glorious Bellarsam Chrisjulittle. Molly overhears Sherlock and John talking about how the detective feels for the pathologist. What Sherlock says is less-than-flattering and Molly decides that distancing herself from the Consulting Detective is what's best for everyone. But what if it's not? What if what Sherlock thought he wanted isn't what he wanted at all?


Molly hadn't meant to eavesdrop, honestly. She was only returning with coffee for the boys when she heard hushed voices. Not wanting to intrude, she waited outside the door, about to announce herself when she heard her name:

"Molly cannot know, John."

"I don't understand what the problem is, Sherlock," John was saying. "Why can't you tell her?" She paused, hesitating. Know what?

"John," Sherlock seemed bored, tired even. "What would be the point?"

"Happiness?" The good doctor offered and Molly felt her heart leap. Tell her _what?_ What happiness?

"_Happiness_," Sherlock sneered derisively. "What a plebeian thing to want. Yes, John, I _do_ care for Molly Hooper, more than that, really. I expect you would call it 'love',"

"What would _you_ call it then?"

"A pain. A sickness, a parasitic feeling that floods my brain and will not leave me a moments peace," Sherlock snapped. "Every day, every moment, I am trying to do my work, and she's _there_, like the bloody…_wallpaper_, in the corner of my mind, distracting me, just out of grasp, I cannot tear her away, and I cannot inject her into my veins as so many other pleasing distractions, get a high, so to speak, and then have done with her."

Molly felt as if she were numb, her face felt hot and it was difficult to breathe.

"Sherlock," John began, but he was interrupted.

"There is nothing I can do about these feelings, obviously. To engage in a relationship with her would be foolish. I am not what she wants, and even if I were, there would come a time when I would hurt her, whether by my lack of tact or through my work, I have enemies, John."

"Don't you think she knows that? She knows the risks. How many times has she pulled you out of a crack house? How many times has she slapped you, corrected you?" John asked, sounding angry. "Sherlock…love…isn't a disease, it's a blessing. It's sharing, it's happiness and yeah, okay, maybe a lot of it is 'boring' for you, but it doesn't have to be-"

"Oh come off it," Sherlock snapped.

"The pursuit of happiness is never easy," John said. "But Sherlock what's so bad about it? Look at Mary and I. Are we normal? We follow _you_ around for pity's sake, which alone proves something. She used to work for the CIA-"

"Yes, do remind me of how _unique_ you two are," Sherlock's laugh was bitter. "'Love'." Another grimace. "Is that what you call love? The endless, insatiable, smothering pursuit? I'm sorry that I'm lonely, I'm sorry that I want her as I do. Everywhere I turn, she's there and I cannot focus on anything. It chokes my thoughts and my breath and I wish for once and for all I-" he broke off, voice sounded harsh, as if speaking were difficult.

"Where are you going?" John called

"For a smoke." Molly realized Sherlock was leaving. Coffees still in hand she hurried across the hall to the supply closet. The door shut just as Sherlock reached the entrance of the morgue. She waited until he was down the hall and in the elevator before sinking to the floor, softly crying.

All that week, Molly put herself on night shifts. Sherlock didn't have a case, so he'd be requesting cadavers. She had them sent to his house via Anthea or Mary, her excuse being she didn't have time to drop them off. It was partly true. She signed up for double-shifts. Hopefully then she'd be too busy to be hurt, too tired to answer her phone. She wanted to be too tired to feel. A small part of her did hope someone would notice that she wasn't answering her phone, that she wasn't joining Mary in the cafeteria or making plans as she usually did for the weekend. She slept more, ate when she felt like it, and tried not to think about what Sherlock had said, which was the hardest part. Sometimes, she'd forget and have a good cry in the loo before forcing herself back to her senses. She'd moved on once, sort of. She could do it again.

~O~

That week, Sherlock noticed something not quite right. He did not receive his customary 'good morning' texts from Molly. Bit rude. He always checked his messages after Mrs. Hudson brought up his tea. Invariably it would be the first one. Generally her good morning text was followed by a message regarding a fresh cadaver for him, or an inquiry about his latest experiment. No one asked about his experiments, but that was usually because no one understood them. Perhaps she was busy. He'd noticed she'd been working double shifts. Perhaps she was meaning to take a holiday, but that would be odd. She never took holidays. When he sent a message for her to bring by several limbs from the morgue, he was rather surprised, and disappointed, to find Mary dropping off the styrofoam cooler instead of his pathologist.

_Why is Mary dropping off the body parts? –SH_

_Was too busy. –MH_

Sherlock frowned at that. Molly was _never_ too busy, and if she was, she usually told him so in the first place. He could have run by the morgue himself if that were the case.

_Perhaps you will be good enough to stop by after your shift. Latest experiment is proving the need for an extra pair of hands. –SH_

_I mean a literal helping hand, though I would not say no if you had a spare set in the morgue. –SH_

_Sorry. Double shifts. –MH_

_Anthea can drop off hands later. -MH_

Now he was confused. Molly was not teasing him or texting him as she usually did. Her answers were straight to the point. She must have been angry. Obviously something happened at St. Barts and she was not in the mood. Perhaps food would cheer her up. He settled his scarf about his neck, snatching up his coat.

_Have you eaten? –SH_

_Yes thank you. - MH_

Sherlock stared at his phone, standing outside St. Barts in the bitter cold; he was confused. Molly could have been stuffed full and her response had always, always been _'Yes but I can fetch something if you are.'_ She knew he rarely ate, so any chance to stuff food in his gob she took. Probably at the urging of John and Mary. He ground his teeth, frustrated.

Isn't this what he wanted from her? Straight and to the point. No shilly-shallying, no banter. Of course that was what he wanted.

But maybe not.

Reassuring himself that she was only tired, and even if she wasn't it shouldn't matter to him, he turned and left.

In the alley across from Barts, he watched Molly leave. Her oversized bag hung heavy on her shoulder, probably bearing several changes of clothing. She'd been at St. Barts since Sunday afternoon, probably ran home to gather a few things and stay at the hospital between her shifts. Her head hung low, and she seemed pale and drawn.

_Depressed_

Rather than hailing a cab, she started the long trek back to her flat, despite the rain. Again, Sherlock frowned. He scanned the street, searching for one of his members of his homeless network. Finding one, he handed them cash, muttering a few orders before he ducked back into the alley, watching.

He couldn't hear what the man was saying to Molly, but he could see him hand her the colorful umbrella he'd just bought with the money Sherlock had given him. Molly looked at the homeless man, then up at the street and alleys. She shook her head, thanked him, pressed a little money into his hand and left without the umbrella. The homeless man returned to Sherlock.

"Keep it," he said, nodding to the umbrella. "Get somewhere warm, there's a chill tonight. There's a hostel not far from here." He folded up his coat collar and stepped out onto the sidewalk, hailing a cab.

The next week was much the same, and Sherlock did not like it one bit. He should have been thrilled at the peace and quiet. He should have been grateful that he hadn't heard from Molly at all, or that she wasn't the one to drop off the cadavers or equipment for his experiments. He should have been relieved, and he should have been able to think more clearly. Instead though, his thoughts were plagued by her. Every day, a member of his homeless network followed Molly either to or from work, reporting to him afterwards. Every day, she seemed even more tired and depressed. Mike Stamford had noted the mood change in his head pathologist.

"Must be turn of the year, this time loads of people get depressed," he shrugged it off, muttering something about giving Molly time off for a holiday soon.

Sherlock tried to focus on the case Lestrade had called him in on. He might have solved it sooner, had he not been so caught up in wondering what the matter with Molly was. She was perfectly helpful during the case; her work was impeccable, as always, he made sure to tell her so. He avoided complimenting her new hairstyle, but he noted she did not wear her usual jumpers and tan slacks. She'd been wearing the hospital scrubs almost on a daily basis. That of itself was odd. It seemed like a prison uniform and very un-Molly of her. When he went home that evening, he took to his violin. Apparently Mrs. Hudson had called John sometime around two or three in the morning, as he was still playing. A hand came over the strings, keeping him from playing. Gently, John removed the instrument from Sherlock's hands.

"You need to go to bed, you've been up for days," John said, putting the violin in its case. He guided the Consulting Detective to the couch. "Lie down, no more for now. Just rest, Sherlock."

John sat in his old chair, getting comfortable. Apparently he was concerned. Sherlock steepled his fingers under his nose, shutting his eyes. He couldn't sleep, not with things all topsy-turvy. He sank into his mind palace, approaching the familiar hallway.

_Outside of Molly's rooms, the cherry jumper hung on the door. The usually cheerful Molly was replaced with a dour, unhappy one and Sherlock disliked it. Her hands folded before her, she stood at the doorway. The medical green scrubs made her look paler than usual. Her rooms in his Mind Palace were slowly fading to dull grey. _

"_Are you dying?" he asked her quietly. _

"_No." _

"_Then what is wrong?"_

"_I don't know."_

"_Yes you do!"_

"_I'm only the visual representation of me in your head, I can only tell you what you know, which, as usual, isn't much. At least in regards to me."_

"_I know everything about you."_

"_Do you? You never say so." _

"_I know you love your ridiculous jumpers, and have an affinity for jam on your ice cream. You have a cat, and are distanced from your remaining family, a sister who dislikes the fact that your father favored you over her. You also miss your father this time of year. Is that it? You're thinking of your father?"_

"_No."_

"_Stop giving me one-worded answers!" he shouted. _

"_Don't you like simple answers?" she asked. "That's what you've always wanted from me. Simple. Uncomplicated. Everything organized and in its proper place. Nothing more. I'm not complicated," she smiled. "I shouldn't be at any rate. What else do you know about me?" _

"_You love your work. You used to be engaged to an imbecile but found out he was cheating on you. I broke his thumbs." She smiled again. "You love me…or loved me. I don't know anymore."_

"_Isn't that what you want? You don't want me, so why should I want you?"_

"_No!" he burst suddenly. "No I don't want that, who said I did?!"_

"_You did, you git," she tugged on his curls in a playful manner. "You told John how much you hated being loved, how much you hate being in love. Isn't this better? I'm not around all the time, I'm not bothering you. I'm doing exactly what you want me to do. I keep my distance, I give you body parts, and you only ever have to see me at work. Isn't it easier now? It's the best you could ever hope for."_

"_No! No it isn't! It's worse! You're still here, but you're not…" he paused, his hands falling weakly to his sides. "You're not you. You aren't my Molly."_

"_I'm what you've always wanted me to be." Her eyes were soft, her voice quiet. "I'm trying to help you." _

"_I don't like it," he declared. "Go back to the way you were. I liked you better when you were you. Make things the way that they were."_

"_The way they were, or the way you wish they were?" she asked. _

"_Make it like it was!" he demanded. "Why can't it be like it was?"_

"_I can't. I'm just the visual representation of me. How you perceive me." Another figure strode into Molly's rooms and he whirled around, incensed. _

"_I suggest talking with her, brother-mine."_

"_What do you care?" he snapped. Mycroft twirled his umbrella. _

"_Because one day, how you perceive her is how she will be in reality, and there won't be anything you can do about it. One day, she's going to leave, and you won't be able to stop her. She really will be gone."_

"_She wouldn't really leave," his voice was small, afraid. _

"_Wouldn't she? Why should she stay if you don't care? The question is," Mycroft leaned closer to Sherlock. "What are you going to do about it?" _

Sherlock sprung up off the couch, startling John.

"Where are you going?"

"Out. Go home, John. Mary will want a rest by now, surely. Besides, it's your turn to sit up with Emma. She's been colicky."

"Yes, I know- wait- what?" Sherlock ushered his friend to his feet and towards the door.

"Go. Home. I'm fine. I'm not going to get high," Sherlock had already crossed the room to the skull, finding the cigarettes, he tossed them to John. "You can take these too." A pause. "For now."

"Oookay…well…text me, if something happens."

"Yes I will, goodbye," he fairly shoved John out the door, slamming it behind him. Digging through his coat pockets, he found his phone.

_Where are you? –SH_

_Home. –MH_

When he didn't respond, Molly tapped out another message.

_I'm off duty for the rest of the weekend. If you need something you'll have to go through Mike Stamford. –MH_

Tossing her phone onto the coffee table, she sank deeper into the cushions of the couch, situating the blanket around her. This was her life now. Double shifts and avoiding Sherlock.

So far, it sucked.

She must have fallen asleep because the next thing she knew was someone puttering around her kitchen. Slowly, she pushed the blankets back, her limbs feeling heavy. She felt numb and stupid, definitely a low-point in her depression.

"Did I wake you?" her eyes opened wide at the sight of Sherlock, shirt-sleeves rolled up, setting out plates, the kettle boiling, Toby stood on the counter, trying to open one of the take-away containers. Sherlock shooed him away before turning back to her.

"What are you doing here?" she asked softly.

"You haven't been eating much lately," he said. "And John suggested-" he stopped then. "Actually John doesn't know anything. You have been upset lately, and I was…concerned."

"Why?" she frowned at him. "Why should it matter to you if I'm upset?" Sherlock began to shift uncomfortably.

"Because I don't like it. I don't know what I've done to upset you, but I am sorry."

His apology seemed to stagger her. She blinked twice, chewing on her bottom lip to keep her mouth from falling open in shock. Sherlock Holmes never apologized.

"You haven't done anything," she said quietly.

"I must have," he shook his head. "You are depressed, you're working overtime to the point that Stamford has ordered you to stay home for a long weekend, you aren't eating properly, and despite your exhaustion, you are not sleeping. You've been like this twice before: the month I faked my death, and the week you found out 'Meat-Dagger' was having an affair. As you are not romantically involved with anyone, it narrows it down to your circle of friends. Someone either stated something hurtful to your face, or you overheard someone speaking of us, I imagine it must be about us because you've been avoiding me, to dissuade any rumors regarding the two of us."

"No, no one's said anything about us," her arms folded over her middle, she was clearly uncomfortable. "Honestly, I'm just trying to make you happy, I'm leaving you alone, isn't that what you want?" her voice rose a little, almost biting.

"No," he answered. Her eyes were wide, mouth open. Clearly she hadn't been expecting that. "I thought…I thought I wanted you to go away, but it's worse, it's so much worse and I – I don't want what I thought I did. I want you, I want it the way that it was only- not quite the way that it was. I love you, Molly Hooper, and I- I want -" he stopped, seeing she was trembling, her face wet with tears. "What? Have I done something wrong?"

"You- you want me? You love me?" she spoke at last, hands shaking.

"Yes."

"You said- you said that love was smothering a-and it was –"

"I was wrong," he interrupted. "I was wrong. Love is not a chemical defect, it can be plebeian but I don't think I've ever been bored with you Molly, and if-if you will have me, if you will try to be patient with me, to let me try and make you happy –" he reached for her, wiping her tears away with his thumbs. "I want to marry you, if you will have me." She didn't answer, and he felt himself desperately thinking. "I'm probably the last person in the world you deserve, the last person who could make you happy, I steal cadavers on a regular basis, my landlady has to hide cigarettes from me so I don't destroy my lungs, and I've been arrested for drug abuse on countless occasions. But Molly if these past weeks have been any indication, my life is inconsolably dreadful without you. I-" he paused, licking his lips, nervous. "I referred to you as a drug, Molly, and in some respects, it was apt, because I am never satisfied with the dribs and drabs of time I spend with you. I want- I _need-_ more, I want- I want to marry you, to endeavor to deserve you- to please you. No one could please me as you always have, no one could make me as happy as you make me, and yes, I do want...that. I want to be happy, with you. I _am_ happy with you, and no one will change that." He had not taken his gaze from her, and he closed the distance between them. "I would like to kiss you now," he declared. She nodded and this was all the permission he needed. Capturing her mouth with his, he drew her close in his embrace, pouring all the emotion he wished he could properly convey into his embrace, he prayed that the old saying was true, that actions speak louder than words. "You don't have to answer right away," he said when they at last pulled apart.

"Okay," she nodded, breathless, and tugged him closer, more kissing.

"I missed you," he murmured against her. "If that wasn't obvious."

"I missed you too," she smiled against his lips. "I put all your clothes in the spare room, if you want to sleep on the sofa tonight." He nodded.

"Yes please. Are you hungry?"

"I wasn't earlier, but, yes I could eat." She looked at the table. "You don't like to eat at the table."

"You do."

"We'll compromise," she said, taking the plates and food containers (which Toby had not been able to pry open). "We'll eat in front of the telly."

Sherlock sat on the couch, Molly's legs on his lap, eating cold Chinese food out of the container, thinking on just how fortunate he really was. Molly hadn't said yes yet, and a small part of him was very afraid she wouldn't, but judging by her reaction, she simply needed time to process, probably a day or so. He supposed eventually he'd have to tell mummy and father. Mycroft would be a whole other ordeal, but nothing he couldn't handle. Dishes set aside; he turned to inquire what she thought a suitable amount of time to plan the wedding, only to find she'd at last fallen asleep. Carefully, he eased himself out from under her, lifting her in his arms and carrying her to the bedroom.

Tucked in, he smoothed her hair before climbed up beside her, slipping between her and the wall, (sleep on the sofa indeed!). Arm over her waist, fingers laced with hers, he shut his eyes.

_In his mind palace, he turned down a familiar corridor, finding Molly's rooms. The dull grey was fading, and she stood at the door, wearing her favorite jumper. She smiled at him, and when she held her hand out to him, he caught the sparkle of a wedding ring on her finger._

In the stillness of the room, Molly felt Sherlock tug her closer, burying his head into her neck, a kiss pressed to her shoulder.

"I love you," he murmured. She smiled in the dark, squeezing his hand.

"I love you too."


End file.
